Rant

Rant was trying to get ready for it.
    Those dirty holes, under those rocks he’d tip up a crack, those places where he couldn’t see, that was the future we was so scared about. After he’d stuck his hands into the dark, and not died from it, after then Rant wasn’t so scared. He’d roll up one pant leg and point his foot out straight. He’d sit in the desert and poke this bare foot down in a coyote burrow, slow, the way folks test bathwater with their big toe. In case it’s too hot or cold. Watching him, Rant would plant both hands braced in the sand, his eyes shut tight, holding one big breath inside his chest.
    In the bottom of that hole, a skunk, a raccoon, a mother coyote with pups, or a rattlesnake. The feel of soft fur or smooth scales, warm or cool to the touch, then—kah-pow—the mouth grab of teeth, and Rant’s whole leg would shake. And Rant never pulled back, not the way most folks would, doing more damage as the teeth hung tight. No, Rant let the mouth let loose. Maybe snatch tight a second time. Sink deep. Let go. Get bored. Then a sniff of warm breath against his toes. Underground, the feel of a wet tongue licking up his blood. Out of that hole Rant would pull his foot, the skin tore up and mangled, but licked clean of dirt. His clean skin bleeding—drip-dripdrip—pure blood. His eyeballs nothing but big black pupil dialed all the way open, Rant would be pulling off his other shoe and sock, rolling up the second pant leg, and shoving another bare part of himself into the dark to see what might happen.
    The whole length of summer, Rant’s toes and finger would be frayed skin, fringed with dripping blood. One bite of venom, one little squirt of poison at a time, Rant was training for something big. Getting vaccinated against fear. No matter the future, any terrible job or marriage or military service, it had to be an improvement over a coyote chomping on your foot.
    Echo Lawrence: Get this. The first night I met Rant Casey, we were eating Italian, and he says, “You never been snake-bit?” He’s wearing a coat, so I have no idea about how mutilated his arms look.
    As if this is my shortcoming, he keeps goading me, saying, “I can’t believe a person could live so long and never been sprayed by a skunk…”
    As if mine has been a life of utter caution and deprivation.
    Rant shakes his head, looking and sighing at his plate of spaghetti. Then, turning his head sideways and giving me a look with only one eye, he says, “If you never been rabid, you ain’t never lived.”
    The nerve of him. Like he’s some redneck holy man.
    Get him. He couldn’t even work a three-speed mounted on the steering column. Until that night, he’d never seen ravioli.
    Dr. David Schmidt ( Middleton Physician): The little screw-up, that Casey boy, he was presenting symptoms before he bothered to let his folks know he’d been bit. With rabies, the virus is carried in the saliva of an infected animal. Any bite or lick, even a sneeze, can spread the disease. Once you have it, the virus spreads through your central nervous system, up your spine to your brain, where it reproduces. The early stage is called the “eclipse” phase of the disease, because you present no symptoms. You can be contagious as all getout, but still look and feel normal.
    This eclipse phase can last a couple days to years and years. And all that time, you can be infecting folks with your saliva.
    Bodie Carlyle: Instead of boosting peaks, Rant wanted to go fishing. He used to say, “My life might be little and boring, but at least it’s mine—not some assembly-line, secondhand, hand-me-down life.”
    Shot Dunyun ( Party Crasher): Getting bit by a rattlesnake, that’s pretty low-tech.
    Dr. David Schmidt: The intolerable aspect was that Buster Casey was a popular boy. He must’ve been. In the past ten years, we’ve treated six cases of rabies infection in a male. All six cases being Buster himself. But we’ve had forty-seven infections in girls, most of those girls he attended school with, and two of those being his female teachers. Out of those, three chose to terminate pregnancies by unnamed fathers at the same time.
    LouAnn Perry: Any way you look at it, Buster was a hazard to have around playing Spin the Bottle.
    Polk Perry ( Childhood Neighbor): History is, Rant Casey had rabies more of his life than he didn’t. And hatching that much of any bug in your brain had to make him some crazy. Still, there’s plenty of folks who find